This Way To Heaven
by elizzabethavary
Summary: M/R; Roger never meant to introduce Mark to his drug of choice. He never meant to fall in love with him, either. There are a lot of things Roger never meant to do, but living with the consequences of his actions proves to be easier said than done.


Title: This Way To Heaven  
>Word Count: 17,333<br>Summary: Pre-Rent, Roger never meant to introduce Mark to his drug of choice. He never meant to fall in love with him, either. There are a lot of things Roger never meant to do, but living with the consequences of his actions proves to be easier said than done. Mark and Roger's recount of the most memorable time of their lives. Based very loosely on Green Day's American Idiot album.  
>Pairing: MarkRoger, Roger/April, slight-miss-it-if-you-blink-reference to Roger/Mimi, Mark/OFC  
>Rating: NC-17<br>Warnings: Erm let's see.. drug use, prostitution, slash, character death, shameless guitar damage, explicit sex, Mark abuse.  
>Notes: OHAI. This is for my lovely Angela (Kisstheboy7) who I've been promising this fic to for about a month now. THANKS FOR THE CHEERLEADING BB. Anyway I'm playing Whatsername in American Idiot the Musical and got inspired to write this. It was originally going to be 7,000-9,000 words long but then it grew a mind of its own and I'm pretty proud of it. Feedback is like crack to me. Huh, maybe I should say that prefacing a story about intense drug abuse. *shrug* Enjoy!<p>

Disclaimer: Don't own em.

Also, this is unbeta'd. Any mistakes are my own.

The club is smoky and dark. Bodies are packed in together like sardines; unable to move without being pressed uncomfortably close to someone you don't know, don't care about and will never see again. In the background, a grungy metal band is playing. They're not particularly good, but Mark isn't really listening either.

He's sitting at the bar nursing a bottle of Coors Light; the only beer he can stomach, not that he can stomach any beer really. He had an embarrassingly low tolerance for a man of his age. Okay, so he was only twenty-two but having the alcohol tolerance of a fourteen year old was still embarrassing.

The reason he was there in the first place, drowning himself in alcohol was beside him. A folded piece of paper with little black letters describing why Mark's latest short film wasn't good enough for the most recent film festival he'd applied to. If he tilted his head and blurred his eyes a little he could make the words blur into nothingness.

The fact that he was trying at all insinuated that he was a little less than sober.

By the time he managed to swallow down the last of his beer, the metallic noises of the band had stopped and some generic dance mix was playing over the system. Now Mark could think straight. Ordering another beer, he almost longed for the twang of the guitars and the squeals of the girls over the thoughts ricocheting through his mind.

He doesn't really even co-relate the two thoughts until he's shoved aside by a haughty looking blonde. He scowls because his camera is teetering on the edge of the counter and he's definitely not intoxicated enough to even think about the potential destruction of his camera.

"Excuuuuuse me." He slurs, tilting on his barstool to get a better look at the obtrusive man. His eyes calculate the obviously dyed blonde hair and leather jacket and the first thing that goes though his mind is that he would look amazing on camera. He gets frustrated when the other man pays him no mind.

To sober Mark, this would be an obvious invitation to fuck off and mind his own business. Unfortunately, drunk Mark doesn't pick up on the cues of normal social interaction.

"EXCUSE me" He says again in a tone that would be annoyed if he wasn't leaning mostly on the counter, bottle precariously held between two fingers. He's still staring and the blonde is still pointedly not looking at him. He nudges him with his elbow which causes the man to groan theatrically and roll his eyes when he finally turns to look at him.

"What." Is all he says, sizing the younger man up as if he's actually a threat. Mark just smiles sloppily, glasses rapidly sliding down the bridge of his nose. Yes, he knows this guy. Well, he doesn't actually know him, but he saw him on stage playing the guitar. He always wanted to play the guitar, but his mom wouldn't let him.

Fuck his mom. He grimaces because that's gross and he doesn't really want to fuck his mom, but fuck her anyway. He's in New York City and he's going to make a movie and buy a guitar if he wants so fuck her.

The only thing his brain registers about this man other than the fact that he plays the guitar, apparently with a band, is that he has really pretty eyes. Gorgeous green orbs, narrowed in arrogance as he waits for Mark to tell him why the hell he's bothering him before his post-show beer. Yes, Mark decides, he has very pretty eyes.

So he tells him so.

"You- You have pretty eyes." The side of his head is almost touching the counter now, and he's smiling hazily, still staring at him. Instead of hitting him like the guitarist normally would have, and probably should have, he laughs. Loudly. He leans against the bar, impatiently tapping for his beer with his eyebrows raised, grinning amusedly.

"Is that so?" He says bemused, accepting the beer and not bothering to tip the bartender who scowls, turning to help another customer. Mark nods seriously, as if this was an important matter, still blinking up at the man.

"Alright then." He shakes his head with a laugh and turns to leave when Mark tugs on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"Don't-"Mark swallows and shakes his head, eyes refocusing. "Don't go- Lemme buy you a beer, or somethin'"

If you asked him years later, he'll say he doesn't know why he stayed, but something about the young man intrigued him even though he was pretty sure he was being hit on. He slides into the barstool beside him and gestures to the beer he already has.

"I'm good man. What do they call ya?"

Mark furrows his brow because he was pretty sure he was hitting on him too and he wouldn't have stayed if it was him. He shrugs it off because he's drunk and drunk time isn't time for thinking and now his thoughts are muddled and he can't figure out what the question was, so he asks one of his own- or at least, he tries to.

"Whass y'er name?"

The blonde laughs, running a hand through his spiked hair and swigging his beer. He's played enough clubs and been hit on by enough drunk groupies to understand what Mark's trying to say.

"Roger." He grins, reaching out a hand and laughs as Mark swipes at it in an attempt to shake it.

"M'Mark." He says with a slight flush as he tries to re-enact Roger's swift handshake and accidentally knocks another guy's beer off the bar. "Oops."

The guy swears at him and looks ready for a fight until Roger glares over Mark's head, sending him cursing in another direction. Mark swivels in his stool trying to follow his gaze and nearly falls, finding the rotating barstool far too amusing. Roger puts his hand on his shoulder to stop the spinning and gestures toward his camera in an attempt to change the topic.

"What's that?"

At this, Mark beams in pride, taking another sip of his beer. "S'my camera." Roger nods semi-interestedly, gesturing for another beer.

"Yeah? I guessed that much." He chuckles, still amused by Mark's drunken slurs. "Why is it here? Unless you're looking to get mugged."

Mark's eyes widen comically and he leans forward whispering, "I don't want to get mugged."

Roger pats him on the back, accepting a beer from the disgruntled bartender. "Then leave that thing at home, dude. People around here'll use anything as an excuse to beat you for every penny you've got." He nods trying to emphasize his point even though he knows Mark's too drunk to care, swivelling on the bar stool again.

"I'm a filmmaker." He says to no one in particular, as if this is a relevant fact. Roger snorts.

"Of course you are. And you just moved to the city and you're going to make the next great blockbuster right?" Mark screws up his face in confusion and disgust. "Blockbusters are for sell-outs. I make documentaries." His lips quirk up in vague pride and Roger shakes his head with a small smile, almost endeared by the innocent way Mark spoke of his dreams as if they're not going to get crushed by the very nature of the city. He drains the rest of his beer and stands, seeing disappointment flicker across Mark's face. He hesitates and shrugs, going with his impulse.

That's never gotten him in trouble before.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Mark's eyes light up and he nods eagerly, standing sloppily and tucking his camera under his arm and Roger almost regrets it.

Almost.

Mark feels Roger's hand wrap around his forearm and suddenly he's being dragged through the mass of bodies and sweat until the bitter air filters through the entrance stinging his cheeks. They stumble out into the deserted street and Mark blinks up at the sky wondering for the first time what time it is. He almost opens his mouth to ask until he realizes that he really doesn't care. Roger doesn't let go of his forearm and Mark blinks in shock, wondering what he meant exactly.

"Wh-where are we going?" He stutters, stumbling along, blush rising in his cheeks. Roger looks back with a grin. "Oh, we'll just go to my place. It's over on Avenue B." Mark nods as if he knows where this is, cheeks reddening further at the thought.

Is Roger trying to have sex with him?

Through his alcohol fuzzed brain, Mark's pretty sure that's what's going on here, and since he's very decidedly NOT gay, why is he even going? He doesn't falter in his steps though, excitement building in his stomach. He's going to have sex.

He's not a virgin, and Mark will tell you that until he's blue in the face. His not virginal experience consisted of one extremely awkward night with the Rabbi's daughter that resulted in a black eye and a bloody nose.

He will also pointedly tell you he most certainly did not get beat up by a girl. Really.

Internally, he shrugs. Maybe he'll be better at gay sex. At this, he laughs out loud causing Roger to look back with a quirked eyebrow. His mom would kill him for even thinking that. But fuck his mom- figuratively. He's in New York and he's going to make a movie and have sex with attractive guys with pretty green eyes all he wants.

So fuck her.

Roger's awesome, so he learns though mild conversation on the walk to his apartment. Roger's really fucking cool and most importantly, he's the icon of Bohemian and pretty much everything Mark's ever wanted to be. Plus, he could play the guitar and that's pretty much the selling point right there. Roger's awesome and he can play the guitar and Mark really wants to have sex with him.

So of course, when Roger asks if he would mind if they took a slight detour Mark doesn't say no. Why would he? Roger's awesome and wherever they're going could only be equally as awesome, so he eagerly follows in his wake like a lost puppy dog until Roger stops in his tracks and Mark nearly walks into him.

"Stay here." He orders, looking around cautiously. "Don't talk to anyone and for God's sake put that fucking thing away!" He hisses pointing at the camera. Mark almost looks offended until he remembers with some difficulty what Roger had said about the mugging and Roger probably wouldn't want to have sex with him if he had blood on him because that's gross, so he complies and hides the camera under his coat and watches as Roger disappears behind a seedy looking corner store.

Roger emerges fifteen minutes later to see Mark showing his camera to a pretty girl with short, red hair that would catch his eye if he wasn't so concerned about his friend- is Mark his friend?- his companion getting mugged. He walks over and stares her down menacingly. Unaware of his concern, Mark keeps rambling on about switches and dials and she has a really pretty smile, nodding at everything he says. Mark looks up when he hears his approach and whispers loudly.

"ROGER! This is April. She's really pretty and she likes my camera." Roger scowls at him, rolling his eyes at his naivety and casting a false smile at the girl.

"You'll have to excuse my friend, he's had a bit too much to drink." Mark blinks up smiling. "We're friends?" Roger can't help the laugh that comes, steering him away from the redhead as soon she opens her mouth to say something. "Sure we are, buddy. Let's get you home."

The next thing he remembers between the encounter with April and the walk home is stumbling into Roger's apartment, which is just as cold as it is outside and it would concern Mark if he wasn't so tired from walking up the stairs. Roger shrugs off his leather coat and Mark follows his lead, taking off his worn plaid coat and watching him warily.

"Are we going to have sex now?" He asks bluntly, watching Roger's face flicker between amusement and bewilderment. He shakes his head and throws him a blanket and pillow from the closet and guides him toward the couch.

"Sleep it off man." He smiles before chuckling more and disappearing behind the door to what Mark assumes is his room. He wants to follow him, he really does, but it turns out the couch is warm and comfortable and he's really tired.

Oh well, maybe he'll get laid tomorrow.

As it turns out, the couch isn't comfortable. In fact, it's the most uncomfortable piece of furniture Mark has had the misfortune of sleeping on. He would know, because he'd been sleeping on it for two weeks.

Neither of them knew when Mark became a permanent fixture in the loft, but Mark wasn't complaining. Roger was even cooler once Mark was sober and the loft was way better than the motel room he'd wasted the last of his parents' money on. It may be drafty and have no heat most of the time, but Roger's there, and Roger's cool and most importantly, Roger's hot. So Mark stays.

It turns out Mark is pretty cool once he's sobered up too. He talks about film a lot and actually teaches Roger a thing or two with his camera and Roger actually likes him. So he lets him crash.

They don't have sex, because Roger isn't into guys and Mark is most definitely a guy. Mark doesn't ask him why he brought him home if he didn't want to have sex with him and Roger never tells him. All he knows is that it's just them in this big loft and that's perfectly fine with Mark. Somewhere deep down, Mark knew what it meant when Roger came home from band practice with a glaze over his eyes and a sharp tongue but he was too naive to mention it. And he didn't want Roger to kick him out, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Sometimes, Mark will lie on the couch in the middle of the afternoon and watch Roger struggle to find the perfect chord or the perfect clichéd lyric to finish his latest song. Mark likes this side of Roger because he's so concentrated and he focus is solely on the music so he doesn't notice if Mark maybe stares a little too long.

Not that he's staring.

They don't officially become roommates until a night on the town, two weeks after picking Mark up at the club. Roger introduces him to his band as his roommate, Mark- so Mark just kind of runs with it. He's pretty sure the drummer is checking him out and the bassist looks like that guy from Queen of the Damned, but the rhythm guitarist- "Brad, but you can call me Reed."- he's nice. Nicer than Roger, who Mark has learned can be a bit of a bitch sometimes. But Roger's still cool and Bohemian and okay, so Mark sort of idolizes him a little but that's to be expected.

When Reed pulls him aside after the gig and tells him in a hushed tone to not let Roger get him into any trouble he actually laughs.

What kind of trouble could Roger get him into?

He doesn't really find out about the heroin for another week. Sure, there have been clues, like little packets left around and the odd time or two that Roger comes home a different person than when he left, but Mark refuses to believe that Roger's a druggie. There's no way that perfect Roger with the guitar and the eyes and the beautiful voice is a junkie. Now that Mark looks back on it, it makes perfect sense.

Roger was sex. Sex emanated from every pore of his body, intoxicating anyone who was close enough to catch it- that anyone usually being Mark. This didn't really help with the not-crush he had on the guitarist. Especially when he grinned so hard that the corners of his eyes crease or when he's on stage, bathing in bad club lighting and the screams of whoever he's put under his spell for that moment in time. Roger was completely irresistible and he knew it damn well. That's why he couldn't say no when Roger came home at two am with a needle and a knowing grin.

"Dude. Dude. You have GOT to try this." He barges in, Mark glancing up from his film tiredly and focusing on him.

"Try what? It's two am Roger- where were you anyway?"He asks as if Roger's actually going to tell him. He scoffs. "Hah, Please. Come on man, this is the best thing that will ever happen to you, I swear to God."

Roger finally comes into focus as Mark slides his glasses back up his nose and he blinks in incredulity, unable to believe that his roommate, his idol, is standing over him with a needle. Mark starts with a gasp, sitting up and backing away, heart pounding wildly.

"What the FUCK- Roger!" He squeaks eyes wide and he backs up against the couch. "That's- That's a needle!"

Roger looks from the needle to Mark with a shrug. "Yeah, I guess it is. Come on, try it!"

He just stares, face paling even more than usual. "You- You want me to try that?" He says slowly after a few moments.

"Yeah.." He says as if this is obvious. Mark gapes, trying several times to formulate a sentence, coming up empty handed.

This is usually the point at which Mark's common sense comes in and saves him. He's staring at the needle in Roger's hand, and seeing the smile on his face and he can't come up with one idea for the life of him why this wouldn't be a good idea. Roger's knows what's cool and if he says shooting up is a good idea, Mark will believe him.

So he does.

He nods, hands covering his arms nervously. Roger advances on him, straddling his lap and Mark leans away slightly, a startled noise in his throat. Roger licks his lips and pulls the scarf from around his neck, tying it around his bicep.

"This won't hurt. I promise."

For some reason, Mark believes him.

He cries out when the needle pierces his vein, the cool metal touching his skin and then everything stops. The sweet rush of euphoria makes him shudder from head to toe, head thrown back and his heart racing even harder than it was before.

"What the fuck is that?" He breathes, eyes cracking open as he watches Roger plunge the needle into his own arm, sighing as all the tension rolls from his body and he slumps forward, nearly falling into Mark.

Roger looks up, and their eyes meet for a moment. "This is heaven."

Mark couldn't help but agree. Roger smiles lazily, his green eyes sparkling and hazed from the effects of the drug. It's the best thing Mark's ever felt in his life.

Roger's still straddling him and his cock is stirring in his pants and it's pretty fucking amazing and somewhere in the haze of whatever is going through his brain, Roger kisses him and he's done for.

Their lips move in a feverish haze. There are too many hands and Mark hardly even knows where he is. Their cocks brush together and an incoherent growl is torn from Roger's chest and suddenly Mark can't move and he's not really complaining. There are hands on his chest and on his thighs and he doesn't even know how that's possible but its happening.

"I want you." He groans into the kiss and Roger doesn't respond but then there's a hand on his cock and his blood is thrumming in his ears and it's all sweat and moans and Mark's pretty sure he's whining and that would be embarrassing if it didn't feel so good. Then his pants are on the floor and Roger's lips are tight around his cock and his head is pounding.

"Roger, oh FUCK." He finds the ability to move his hands and they're tangled in Roger's hair, tugging it softly. He feels completely disconnected from his body as his tongue darts around his shaft and Roger swallows around the head of his cock. Between this and the ecstatic feeling in his veins Mark never wants him to stop. He never wants to stop feeling this good.

He thrusts his hips up violently as Roger tongues the slit, choking on a desperate moan. Roger growls around him and his hands come up to hold his hips down and yeah, he's definitely done this before. His tongue is tantalizing, tracing patterns up and down his length as he hollows his cheeks out and he bobs his head as fast as he can.

Everything is intense, every jolt of pleasure nearly sends him over the edge and it's everything he can do not to cum. Roger peeks up at him through his eyelids, emerald eyes choking him speechless and nearly sending him tumbling over the metaphorical cliff.

"Oh, oh OH SHIT. Roger- I'm gonna, I'm gonna!" He chants under his breath, thighs tensing and fingers curling in his hair harshly. "FUCK...!"

He comes with a shout in the back of his mind, he doesn't even know what's happening except the fact that white hot pleasure is soaring through his body and this is a new kind of high. With a kind of daunting realism he realizes that he never wants to come down.

Roger pulls off with a loud smack, white cum dripping down his chin as he shoves his hand in his pants, fisting himself furiously. Mark watches him attentively as he makes a range of noises, face contorting in pleasure as his hand move over his erection, thumb moving over the head at a fast pace. It doesn't take long before he's coming into his fist, choking back a scream, hand tensing on Mark's thigh before his face falls into his lap. He's drooling a little and Mark doesn't care because he's high and Roger just sucked him off and that's fucking amazing.

They don't talk. Eyes still locked and limbs boneless as Mark curls into the couch, panting helplessly. If this is what comes in Roger's needles, then Mark thinks he knows why so many people could get addicted to it so easily. Whether it's the drug or the look in Roger's eye that he feels a dynamic pull to he'll never know, but he knows he wants more of it.

Mark will never forgive Roger for introducing him to the monster. Roger will never admit that it was his fault that Mark became a shadow of what he was, all dreams of filmmaking left in the dust.

When Mark wakes up, he doesn't know where he is. He bones ache and he's pretty sure his head is screaming. He tries to move his neck and he groans loudly as the vertebras click into place and his arms are heavy as he rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

Roger's face is still in his lap and his pants are still on the floor beside them and even his flaccid cock aches from something he can't name. Roger's snoring in a puddle of his own drool, hands dangerously close to his crotch and this would almost arouse Mark if he wasn't in so much pain.

"Roger?" He groans, shoving at his head. "Roger? Wake the fuck up."

Roger doesn't show any sign of life.

"ROGER" He rasps, bucking him off his lap as Roger tumbles to the ground, cursing loudly.

"What the fuck!" He curses, holding his head as it cracks against the floor. "Dude! Uncalled for." Mark's eyes open again lazily.

"You were drooling on my lap." He states dryly, arms tingling as he buries his face in the hard cushion. "Why were you drooling in my lap."

Roger ignores him, nursing the side of his head from where he hit it off the makeshift coffee table. Mark follows his eyes and that's when it sees it. A tiny red dot stands out from his ivory skin, staring Mark right in the face.

His very first track mark.

Everything clicks into place and he moves his stiff neck to glare at Roger, even though Roger isn't paying him any mind.

"You got me high." It's more of an accusation than a question. Roger shrugs, checking the back of his head for cuts, examining his hand when he pulls it away and frowning.

"So?"

"SO?" Mark loses it, and he wants to punch Roger in the face but it feels like his bones are made out of lead and he can't bring himself to do it.

Roger's supposed to be his idol.

"Why does it matter dude? I thought you were cool."

This hits Mark deeper than it probably should have. It infuriates him and makes him feel pathetic at the same time. He wants so desperately to prove to him that he IS cool and worth Roger's time and he really wants Roger to like him so he frowns slightly and shakes his head.

"I am. I-" He looks down in embarrassment and it's about now that he realizes that he's not wearing pants.

Fuck.

Somehow, in the haze of aching muscles and the feeling that's he's recently run a marathon, he gets the courage to call him on it. Of course, calling him on it in the most awkward way possible because how else would Mark manage to get a point across?

"You sucked me off!"

Finally, Roger turns to look at him. His face is expressionless, and cum is dried where it dripped down his chin confirming his suspicions. Roger blinks once, twice, and then shakes his head.

"No I didn't."

Mark's eyebrows furrow and his head tilts. He doesn't understand what Roger's doing and he's going to press the issue because that's what he does best.

"Yes you did, Roger."

Roger just shakes his head again, eyes narrowing as if he's trying to telepathically get Mark to shut up. Mark opens his mouth to argue and shuts it immediately, realization dawning over his features.

Roger doesn't WANT to talk about it. He wants to pretend it didn't happen and they can go on being roommates and never talk about this again. Except, if Mark closes his eyes he can almost see Roger's chapped lips around his erection and he doesn't want to forget about it.

The memory of ecstasy and unimaginable pleasure is almost enough to dull the pain of his aching body.

"I feel like shit." He mutters, mustering the energy to pull his boxers up his thighs in an attempt to show some kind of decency. His head is still pounding and he almost misses Roger's response.

"Shouldn't have mainlined your first time."

Mark blinks in incredulity. Roger's the one who barged in the loft at two in the morning with a needle full of beautiful liquid heaven and he's telling _him_ he shouldn't have mainlined his first time? Fuck that. Roger can be such a bitch sometimes.

"Whatever." Mark stands shakily, hissing at the pain as he tries to jump into his pants, legs shaking under his weight. If Roger wants to pretend this never happened, he can do that. Two can play at this game.

Yet somehow laying on the floor with dried cum on his face, bathing in the glow of the late morning sun, Roger still looks like the Bohemian God that Mark has always made him out to be. He shakes his head and groans at the heavy feeling. He needs to get out of here before he tries to jump Roger- or something equally as stupid.

He grabs his camera from its spot on the floor beside Roger, pointedly attempting not to look at him. "I'm going to go film." This is the first time he's used this as an excuse to escape from Roger, but it definitely won't be the last. His camera, as he learns, is a wonderful scapegoat in an awkward situation.

Roger just grunts, rubbing the back of his head and pretending to look out the window. Mark takes a hesitant glance in his direction, noticing the needle on the floor in the place where Roger presumably dropped it during their haze of glory.

It's not as scary as it should be, and that scares Mark more than anything. He doesn't say anything else in his haste to leave the situation as soon as humanly possible. Escape from anything moderately real. It was the motto of the Bohemian world, as Mark will learn. Grabbing his coat and his wallet- not that he really had any money to spend, not if they wanted to eat this week- he makes a quick exit, cold wind burning his cheeks as he walks into the midst of lower class New York.

He inhales deeply, air stinging his lungs as he barrels down the street, trying to appear as hurried as the rest of the world, mind on anything but the poorly maintained buildings of Alphabet City. He doesn't even realize he left his camera on the table in the loft.

Roger is painfully straight, that much he's made perfectly clear. He's a rockstar in his own mind, girls throwing themselves at him whenever he comes too close, or flashes that smile that makes them all swoon. Hell, it makes Mark swoon.

But he's not gay. He's straight god damn it. If he can spend his high school career attempting to convince his entire class of it, he'll be damned if he can't convince himself.

He's straight.

But Roger's smile still puts a funny feeling in his stomach and maybe his stage voice makes his toes curl, but he's still straight. He likes girls. He _slept_ with Nanette- kind of. Yet in one night, his friend (not-crush) managed to convince him to get high and gave him the best (only) blowjob of his life.

If Roger was so straight, why the hell was he the one sucking Mark off anyway? Mark always thought it'd be the other way around- not that he was thinking about it. He'd always (not) imagine being on his knees, making Roger's fingers curl in his hair, worshipping his cock and forcing those beautiful noises out of him and- fuck.

Mark's mom is going to kill him.

He sighs, turning a corner when he realizes he has no idea where he's going. The buildings surrounding him are less than familiar and impossibly more run down than the building they live in. He walks past a rundown looking bar, pausing in front of it for a moment as he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns slowly, heart jumping into his throat as a ragged looking man comes into view.

He begins to panic silently, swallowing thickly. The man in front of him was much older looking, straggly brown hair hanging in his eyes and a yellowed smile that could mean nothing good.

"You look lost, kid."

Mark swallows thickly, nodding slightly. He wants so badly to run as fast as he can in the opposite direction but he doesn't want to _give_ the guy a reason to hurt him. Just stay inconspicuous and he'll be fine- or so he tells himself, anyway.

"You're not from around here." The man observes in a dark tone, stained teeth glinting in a discomforting grin. Everything about this guy has Mark's instincts screaming at him to run for it, but somehow his feet stay rooted to the spot.

"I live on Avenue B."

If it hasn't been mentioned before, let it be known that Mark's an idiot. The guy's eyebrows raise and he chuckles darkly, not moving his hand from his shoulder.

"Really now? Well, well, well. Is there anything I can do for ya?" He asks in a suggestive tone, eyebrow quirked. Mark blushes, stiffening further under the man's hold.

"No, no. I don't think- I'm not gay." He explains, misunderstanding the man's question even though he's pretty sure he has to get a second opinion on the nature of his sexuality after being subjected to the likes of Roger Davis.

Several expressions flicker over the man's face, ranging from bewilderment to hilarity and if Mark wasn't frightened before, he certainly is now. He begins shaking slightly, anxiety coiling in his chest and he really needs to get the fuck out of there.

Until the man pulls out a small bag of white powder, not unlike the ones Mark's seen around the loft numerous times and his world comes to a screeching halt.

"Interested?"

Is he interested? Mark thinks back to the night before; the liquid pleasure soaring through his veins and the way everything felt like a shock of ecstasy. It makes him realize with a shudder that he would give anything to feel that way, to make Roger _look_ at him like that again. Maybe, just maybe if he can get Roger high again...-

Mark doesn't even have the time to feel guilty about the thought before he's nodding eagerly causing the stranger's lips to turn up in a smirk that could only be described as terrifying.

"I thought so. You looked like you could use a little... pick me up."

Mark attempts an awkward smile, wringing his hands together. "I don't really have- I can't afford it really." He mutters embarrassedly, not entirely sure how the whole drug dealing thing goes, but he's relatively certain that there's a significant amount of money involved that Mark was planning on eventually eating this week.

"How much've ya got." He says it like a statement more than a question, the look in his eyes making Mark swallow and fidget more.

"Twenty."

"I'm sure we can figure something out." The dealer grins, pressing the bag of powder in his hand. "How about this one's on me, but you pay up next time."

"N-Next time?" He stutters, blinking rapidly.

"This stuff's pure kid, there _will _be a next time."

He gulps audibly and nods curling his fingers around the package that feels so foreign in his hand. He thanks him quietly and begins to turn away before realizing something.

"Sorry, er- do you think you could show me..." He trails off, not wanting to embarrass himself more than he already has. The man looks amused and quirks his lips, pulling out another package.

"Give me the twenty and I'll give you this. Everything you need is right here, my friend."

Mark looks hesitant, but he complies fishing in his wallet for the last twenty to his name and exchanging it for the bag. Fuck- well they don't really need to eat this week, do they?

"Uh yeah, thanks." Still flushed, he offers the dealer a smile and turns in the opposite direction, walking at a brisk pace and tucking the package in his coat pocket.

Fuck. He just bought actual drugs from an actual drug dealer. He doesn't even know what it is, other than white powder that sets his nerves on fire and he wants it, _so badly. _Maybe his mom was right; it's almost as if he can actually feel the city swallowing him whole.

Fuck his mom. He came to the city to be free and bohemian and if he wants to fuck around with drugs and have a good time, that's his business. So fuck her.

He ducks into a dimly lit alley, even though it's the middle of the afternoon. It could just be his paranoid nature, but he really doesn't want to get caught and he wants the dull ache in his bones to be gone and the feeling of freedom to take over his senses.

Opening the bag, he finds a straw, a needle, a spoon, a lighter and a poor excuse for a tourniquet. In the cynical voice in the back of his mind, Mark thinks it could be marketed as a junkie starter kit. But that's just because he'd originally gone to Brown as a Marketing major and just because he'd tried that beautiful powder doesn't mean he's going to be a junkie. He's in control, he can stop if he wants to.

That doesn't stop him from tearing open the package.

He prepares it the same way he'd seen in so many documentaries about drug abuse and how they ruin kids' lives. But Mark wasn't a kid anymore and he could do whatever the fuck he wants. The powder sits in the spoon, staring him in the face accusingly and he can't believe he's _actually_ doing this. Little Mark Cohen from Scarsdale is sitting behind a building in the slums of the East Village and he's shooting up and it's fucking exhilarating.

He hisses once again as the needle pierces his skin, though it's not as much of a shock as it was the first time. This time he's prepared for the sharp, tingling pleasure taking over his body, but he still finds it hard to breathe, panting as his head hits the side of the grimy building. He feels sated, like everything that could ever have gone wrong has happened, and this- whatever this is- has brought him up and made him whole again.

For the first time in his life; Mark feels beautiful.

His eyes blink upwards as the mid afternoon sun shines down on the city, sending shimmering golden light into the lives of millions of nameless, faceless people that can't take a minute out of their lives to appreciate it. Mark does though, hazy eyes watching the golden orb take its' place in the sky and it makes him feel significant, like he's the only one watching.

Somehow, he manages to pack up his kit and tuck it into the inside pocket of his jacket, stumbling out of the alley and shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to remain inconspicuous. If he was sober, he would be paranoid, looking behind himself every few minutes to make sure there aren't cops trailing him, or gangsters waiting to mug him. High Mark, however, looks at everything in a blissful haze, even though he has no idea where he is or how he's supposed to find his way back to the loft.

He manages to get back, even though he's not completely sure how he got there. His brain is on autopilot, his conscious mind revelling at the way his senses are heightened, taking in everything as if it's brand new. Stumbling up the stairs of their building, he even thinks the graffiti on the walls is beautiful as he lets himself into the loft, giggling and slamming the door loudly.

He's not surprised to see Roger in the exact same spot he left him in. Roger rarely moves for anyone, even though Mark has no conscious idea of how long he was gone. Roger is sitting on the floor with his guitar in his lap, looking out the window thoughtfully as he plucks at the strings. Hearing Mark's entrance, he turns his head, raising an eyebrow expectantly. He just stands in the kitchen, wavering on the spot as he regards Roger curiously with wide, red eyes.

"You're high." Roger states dryly, almost uninterested except for the glint on surprise in his eyes. Mark blushes slightly, not taking his eyes off his roommate.

"So what if I am?" He walks towards him, standing a cautious few feet from the other man as he tries to gauge his reaction. Roger's quiet, contemplative for a few minutes while he wonders if he should feel guilty for corrupting the smaller, impressionable boy. In the end, he laughs.

"Shit's awesome, isn't it?" Mark breathes a small sigh of relief, not that he would care much if Roger were upset with him because he feels _so damn good._ He nods eagerly, plopping down next to him and following his gaze out the window. "Heaven." He agrees, laying a head on his shoulder. Roger doesn't stiffen or move under his weight. He just continues playing his guitar like there's nothing wrong.

As it turns out, Mark high is one of the most beautiful things Roger has ever experienced in his young life. It turns the introvert into pure passion radiating from every pore, the way he talks about whatever goes through his mind without filtering it for anyone's sake. It's a side to the filmmaker that Roger truly believes everybody inhabiting the planet should see. There's no way the old Mark would even consider doing half the things that he's done.

The _old _Mark.

It's true that he's changed. He's changed a lot from the timid, awkward boy that Roger had met at the club three months ago. He's watched him change first hand from a naive boy into this beautiful man who has enough confidence to outshine Roger at moments- which is a talent in itself. But change isn't bad, and so what if it has to come in a little packet of powder? It's never hurt for Roger, so there's no way it could hurt Mark. He truly believes it will make their dreams come true, and he tells Mark this while they're tangled together on the couch, a forgotten needle at their feet; the picture of bliss.

Roger's band's going to get signed and Mark's going to make a movie and everything is going to be theirs. They have the entire fucking world in the palm of their hands, because an ounce of that powder and they're golden. Truth is, Mark hasn't touched his camera in weeks and Roger can only sing on key when he's high these days, so he doesn't bother trying otherwise.

They're the only one's blind to the trainwreck that their lives are about to become, but it's Roger's philosophy that keeps them blind. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

It's Reed, the guitarist who gives Roger the first clue that he's done something wrong. They're all out celebrating the success of their last gig when he corners Roger after having walked in on Mark shooting up in the back of some grungy dive bar. It's not the drugs that bothered him, because they'd all tried it. It's the fact that the blonde boy had just grinned at him, needle halfway in his arm and asked him if he wanted to share a hit.

"You're going to get him _killed _Davis." He growls at him, his temper taking over his usual optimistic attitude. "Do you understand what that means?"

Roger just blinks at him, laughing hysterically and shaking his head. "Dude, you need another drink." He's almost nervous at how close Reed is standing and the way he has his fist curled in his shirt, but he's high, so nothing can go wrong. He's just mainly jealous that Mark shot up without him.

"He's a good kid, Roger. You're ruining his life. He's got potential." He insists, getting increasingly annoyed as Roger continues to laugh and ignore him, not able to press to the addict the seriousness of the situation. "It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Ever heard of AIDS Roger?"

Roger just snorts.

"That shit only happens to monkeys. Now kindly get the fuck off of me." Reed almost gives up before he sees Mark across the room, making a deal with a man in the corner. "You're both getting hooked. Do you want to kill yourself? There's not enough room in hell for both of you, you know." The statement is supposed to be much more profound but he's already had one too many and he's done saving Roger.

Unfortunately, the effort ears Reed a punch in the jaw as Roger squirms out from under his grasp and darts over to Mark, inspecting their stash. Reed just watches in exasperation as he rubs his jaw. Fucking idiots.

Roger isn't sure what he loves more about Mark when he's high; the look in his eyes when he's about to do something particularly outrageous or the way he's always _all over him. _He knew Mark had a little crush on him when he's brought him home- hell, it's arguably the reason he brought him home in the first place, but Roger would never admit it. He's not gay. He doesn't even need to convince himself of that. He likes girls. A lot. He likes tits and hourglass bodies and long hair that gets tangled in his fingers.

It's four months into their friendship that he realizes Mark's the most sex he's had in- four months. And their record consists of one blowjob and a sloppy midnight kiss at New Years which Mark had said was to prove a point, but Roger's pretty sure that Mark just wanted to kiss him, saw an opportunity and took it and there's no way Roger can call him out on that.

It just bothers him how fucking hot he is when he's high- not that they're ever sober these days. The drugs come before food, utilities and other necessities when they need it. They have a reasonable stash to back them up incase something happens. Roger's got it all figured out, and Mark just follows him along with whatever he does because everything Roger does feels so fucking good, and if it feels good, it's good enough for Mark.

It takes Roger a long time to figure out he doesn't care how male Mark is and that if Mark straddles him while they shoot up or presses his face against his neck in their heroin-induced haze, he's going to jump his bones. He also realizes that this is inevitable because they almost always pass out together, wrapped up in each other because apparently his physical boundaries that he's always regarded so closely are completely void when it comes to the smaller man.

Every time his brain decides to try and figure out _why _exactly he's so okay with this, there's always Mark and a needle of liquid amnesia that help him forget.

It just so happens that Mark is as equally frustrated with the lack of sex as he is, because they're practically together as it is since they rarely let the other out of their sight. One day in mid-February, he comes home glowing after scoring a particularly good deal on an amount of Heroin that would undoubtedly ensure them a lengthy jail sentence. Seeing Roger on the armchair, grumpy as he comes down from their last high, he walks over to him purposefully, removing the guitar from his lap and straddling him with hands tight on his shoulders.

"You're back early." Roger's mood instantly lightens as he sees the filmmaker- the fact that he's on his lap is only a bonus. Mark grins fiendishly and opens his camera bag, exposing the bag of drugs he'd purchased for them, enjoying the way Roger's eyes bug out of his head.

"Holy fuck. How the hell did you score that?" He asks slightly incredulous. He's learned that Mark has some kind of spell over the dealers that he just doesn't have. He assumes it's probably because he's so innocent looking that they pity him, but if it gets them deals like this, who's he to complain?

"That's for me to know and you to agonize over- or not." Mark retorts, pulling a hardly used needle out of the bag with a wink. This was the side of Mark that Roger couldn't help but adore. He's so forceful and sure of himself, something that the old Mark could never be and they both knew it. Roger nods eagerly, helping him prepare the mix, taking the first hit and watching as Mark injects the same needle into his left arm.

"Mmm... S'good stuff." Mark licks his lips, grinning as he tosses the needle aside and places his hands on Roger's chest. "Better than last time. Love me yet?" He's joking, squirming in his lap and he moves his hands over his chest playfully and Roger just can't take it anymore, grabbing his biceps and mashing their mouths together hard.

Mark makes an undignified squeak, eyes wide open and heart hammering wildly as Roger ravishes his mouth savagely. He has to consciously tell him to move his lips tentatively against his friend's, wondering if this is another incidence of sexual frustration like their last encounter had been- or so he assumes. Roger doesn't seem to register his reluctance however, teeth nipping at his lips relentlessly and he can taste blood but neither can tell whose it is- and neither can bring himself to care, too lost in the wet movement of lips on lips.

When Roger's hands come down to rest on his hips, this should have alerted Mark as to what they were doing. He should have pushed Roger away, said they couldn't ruin their friendship for sex, _anything _to stop this from happening but damn it he's been wanting this for too long. He drags his friend off the chair, letting himself be slammed into the wall and letting Roger's hands roam over his body. He wasn't memorizing his curves and muscles because the passion was there now and there wasn't time for that.

They had all the time in the world.

Mark's nerves are on fire, hands clutching the back of Roger's tank desperately, mewling into his mouth. Roger grins at this because this is what he _does. _He`s used to having the ability to completely override people`s senses and claim them. Making them his for as long as he wants them with unwavering devotion. Sex, apparently, is no different.

Somehow though, this time is different than the last. They`re both hyper aware of every touch, every brush of skin on skin contact as they hurriedly undress each other, boxers and sweaters flying in opposite directions as they hunger for more spark- pure pleasure. Their mouths are still glued together as hands grip shoulders and hips hungrily, eyes shut tight as they pull away for air.

"Suck." Roger demands huskily as he presses two fingers to Mark's lips, moaning as they're sucked into the moist cavern of his mouth, Mark's tongue lightly slathering them and suckling the digits thoroughly. Somehow it's predetermined that Mark's bottoming, legs wrapped tightly around Roger's waist making both of them groan as their erections touch. Things like disease and protection aren't even factors in their nearly animalistic foreplay, Roger's fingers slowly prodding Mark's entrance. At this point, he's merely going on instinct and what he knows from crude jokes because neither of them have ever done this but they're both fucked out of their minds and Roger's pretty sure that he's never wanted anything more than he wants to be inside of the filmmaker right now.

"Nng- Rogerrr." Mark whines, squirming on the finger uncomfortably. It doesn't hurt though because that little baggie of white powder says nothing in the world could possibly hurt right now. His hands come up to grip his shoulders desperately, bitten nails digging into the rocker's tanned shoulders.

"Shut it, Cohen." Roger growls, stretching him out slowly because he really doesn't know what he'd do if he actually hurt the other man, but he keeps up the tough guy persona anyway, teeth nipping at the pale expanse of neck that he has access too.

Once Roger has deemed Mark open enough, he spits a generous amount of saliva in his hand, making Mark wince and wrinkle his nose in disgust. Roger rolls his eyes and rubs his slick hand around his cock, moaning. "Want me to fuck you or not?" At this, all look of disgust leaves Mark's face and he's nodding eagerly, thighs pulling Roger's waist closer to him.

Roger grins wickedly and presses him back against the wall, pushing the head of his cock through the first tight ring of muscle and moaning, unashamed of the pleasure that courses through him. "Oh... fucking-nngh." It's less than eloquent, but it's enough to make Mark throw his head back, sweat mingling with the cool metal behind his back.

"More Roger, please." He's impatient and it doesn't really hurt so he doesn't see the harm in prodding Roger to go maybe just a little faster, his cock twitching against the guitarist's stomach. Roger complies, all thoughts of hurting him flying out of his clouded mind as he thrusts in more furiously, fingers digging into his hips as he feels Mark's entire body tense beneath him.

"HOLY FUCKING HELL. DO THAT AGAIN- PLEASE OH GOD." He begs, the pleasure of the drug thrumming through his veins doubling as Roger slams into his prostate restlessly and they both know this really isn't going to last much longer as Roger's hand comes between them to stroke Mark at the same pace as he's slamming him into the wall.

"You're my fucking bitch, Cohen. Don't forget it." He growls possessively, slamming into his prostate fiercely as he feels his stomach begin to twist with the familiar tingle of an impending release.

From this moment on, everything seems to happen in slow motion, yet everything's exploding and happening at once. He hears his name echoing off the walls of the loft, and his eyes are squeezing tight as he feels Mark's teeth sink into his shoulder and suddenly everything's tight and white hot and Mark's cumming hard in his fist. He thrusts in a few more times before it's too much and he cums somewhere deep inside him, screaming obscenities.

They end up a sticky tangled mess lying in the doorway of the loft and Roger aimlessly hopes they're not expecting any company because there's no fucking way he's moving for anyone. Minutes go by and they're lying in pile of drug and sex induced pleasure.

Heaven, as some have described it.

Along with the first peak comes the first crash.

Mark is tearing apart the loft furiously, reels of film flying across the room as he desperately looks for something, _anything_ worth something to someone. It's the six month anniversary of the day they met in that dingy club and Mark needs a fucking hit, _now._

Mentally, he corrects himself. He doesn't _need _a hit because if he needed a hit that would mean he's addicted and he can stop, really. He just wants to spend his six month anniversary with his best friend stoned out of their respective minds. Not that he's really spent a day sober in the last five months, but that doesn't really compute with him in his frustration.

"FUCK ROGER." He growls at the figure hanging off the couch where cigarette smoke is wafting. It's the early evening and they don't have power again so he can't really see his friend turned lover in the dim candlelight. "Help me look god damn it."

"I don't see what your problem is. I'm fine." Roger tosses over the arm of the couch in a contented tone.

"You're _high." _Mark spits dryly, tossing a dresser drawer across the room in his frantic search. "You stole the last of my fucking stash. That's why you're fine, bastard." He's not really mad at him because they pretty much share everything, whether it's spit or smack, but he'd really appreciate it if he got off his ass and helped him look for something to sell.

"You could always sell your camera. S'not like you use the thing anymore." Roger suggests airily and it takes all of Mark's frayed restraint not to go over there and punch him in the face. There's no way he's selling his camera. He came to New York to make movies and he's not selling his camera for drugs no matter how desperate he is.

Not that he's desperate.

"You could always sell yourself." He suggests jokingly, inhaling more cigarette smoke. "I bet a hot ass like yours could bring in a pretty penny or two."

Mark knows he's joking, but he can't pretend it didn't sting. Here he was, ripping apart their apartment looking for something to sell just to get high. He's not that far from it, but he's not desperate. People who have sex for drugs are sick and there's no way he'd ever stoop that low. He'll never be one of those people because he doesn't _need _it. Smack was just a way to have fun. Fun with Roger, or sex with Roger. Whatever came first.

And anyway, he couldn't image what his mom would do to him if she ever found out that he was prostituting for drug money. She'd shove it in his face and tell him exactly what she'd told him when he'd called and said he was dropping out of school; that there was no place for a pretty blonde jewish boy in New York City.

There was no way he was going to let her get away with being right for the first time in his life.

A soft plucking sound comes from the main loft that signals that Roger's finished his cigarette and is now playing tunelessly on his acoustic while Mark digs through needles and comic books to find something worthwhile to sell. The sound is just an annoyance to him as he digs through his room desperately.

"Roger, knock it off and help me look god damn it." He calls, tossing a capo out the door into the living room. There's no response, just more strumming in a higher key. Frustrated and annoyed, he stomps out looking much like a housewife as he stands in front of Roger with his hands on his hips.

"Dude, what's with you?" Roger asks, a small smile on his face as he examines Mark uninterestedly.

"I want to get high. Not stop playing that fucking thing before I break it and come help me!" He demands, eyes narrowing at the blonde. The strumming only gets louder and Mark gives up, moving closer with a look on his face that screams sex to Roger.

Then again, Roger's stoned and Mark is moderately pissed off.

Roger almost moves the guitar off his lap because he's learned that the only thing better than pissing Mark off and laughing about it is sex with Mark, which is something they're both becoming quite practiced at.

He's not ready for it when Mark whips the guitar off his lap and smashes it against the concrete floor, features set in a scowl. Roger makes a strangled noise, eyes widened at the bespeckled man as he gropes in the direction of the guitar. "You- What? I... My guitar!"

"Don't underestimate me, Davis. Not get off your fucking lazy ass and help me." Mark almost looks smug as he pulls Roger off the couch, feeling his arms encircle his waist tightly.

"Sure I can't just fuck you instead? You're sexy when you're mad." Mark grins goofily, shoving his glasses up his nose. "Not until I'm as high as you are." He squirms out of Roger's embrace, looking through the couch and wrinkling his nose at the amount of crap living under the couch cushions. He looks up at Roger expectantly. "Well?"

Roger shrugs, looking in the direction of the mangled guitar sadly. If it had've been his Fender, he would have been pissed, but it was an old acoustic Washburn his dad had given him and he'd always hated his dad anyway, so he didn't really give a fuck. He didn't need any more reminders of what he'd left behind.

"You know, we could have sold the guitar." He offers, a smug grin on his face. Mark screws up his face angrily and metaphorically kicks himself in the ass, demanding that Roger either help him or get the fuck out of his face.

Somehow, and at this point Mark isn't entirely sure how, they ended up with a sizable bag of smack and called it their anniversary present, fucking the daylights out of each other for four days straight. In the end however, they ended up having to take a week long break from sex and using up the end of their stash, putting them back into the exact same predicament.

Except this time, Roger's sober and sex deprived. And Roger isn't a pleasant person when he's not strung out on his favourite poison.

"I'm not a fucking magician, Roger!" Mark screams, hands flailing in the air as he attacks his roommate with words. "I can't make money _appear_ out of nowhere!"

Roger advances on him, eyes dark and teeth clattering with need. They'd been sober for three days straight at this point and he couldn't take it anymore. He knew they were starting to withdraw and he couldn't stand the shakes anymore.

"Well then FIX it." He growls back, hands clenched in fists. As Mark begins to protest, Roger's fist collides with his jaw with a loud crack sending him back into the wall, hand rubbing at his jaw. Roger stands there for a moment shell shocked, before retreating back into his room.

"I don't give a fuck how you do it, just do whatever it takes." With that the door slams shut, even though Roger hadn't bothered to use his own room in two and a half months.

Once out in the blazing heat of the summer with Roger's scarf tightly wound around his neck for good measure, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence the loft had to offer, he finally gives thought to Roger's words.

_Do whatever it takes._

He isn't sure how he got there, but he ends up in the same alley where he'd bought drugs for the first time nearly six months ago. This dealer isn't his favourite, but he likes him well enough, yelling at him and waving him over.

"Toni! My man, well well well... What can I do ya for?"

Yeah, Mark's an idiot most of the time, but he's not stupid enough to give his dealer his real name. Anthony's his middle name, and his mom always used to call him Toni when she was mad, and he's pretty sure his mom would be significantly upset with him if she found out he was addicted to drugs.

Not that he's addicted; it's just what his mother would assume. Right.

"I need a fix." He states dryly, hands stuffed into his pockets. "I'm broke man, but I swear just one. I'll pay you back." He pleads, watching the Man's face light up in a grin once he realizes he's successfully converted another junkie. He likes Mark though, so he leans in with his yellowing teeth glinting in the sunlight.

"Ever thought about selling?" He licks his lips as Mark's face screws up in confusion. No, he hadn't thought about selling. _Why hadn't he thought of selling_?

"I can't afford-" He starts, suddenly wary of the look on his face.

"You don't _need _to afford." He grins, twitching suddenly as Mark blushes fiercely in realization. "Oh no, no. I don't think so." He mutters embarrassedly.

The Man shrugs, waving a little baggie of powder in his face. "You want a hit, don't you Toni?" Mark groans, actually groping in the air for the little package. "I know a guy." He says, pulling a card out of his back pocket and pressing it into Mark's palm. "He works over on Avenue C. He'll give you what you need."

With a hasty goodbye, he's nearly running in the opposite direction, scarf tightening around his neck and shaky fingers scratching at his arms. Fuck, he needs a hit. His bones are aching and his veins are burning with need.

_Do whatever it takes._

He will do anything to get his hands on that beautiful powder, he's sure of it. For a moment he wonders if Roger will get upset because it almost feels like he's betraying him. But he's not, because he's doing it for them. Roger will still love him as long as he brings home the dope.

Not that he loves Roger or anything- that's absurd.

Truth be told, they're far from being in love. It's a sickening co-dependency that relies solely on the drug. The beautiful pleasure makes them forget why they shouldn't be together and lets the lust take over, ripping them apart until someone's tied to the bedpost and they're fucking like tomorrow will never come.

At this point in the game, that's always a possibility.

He's doing this for Roger, he has to remind himself when the dealer gives him a wicked grin as he presses the card into his palm and explains why he's here. He's doing this for the feeling of his lips and his touch and those blazing green eyes that he fell in love with that very first night before he even knew the monster.

He reminds himself again when he's pressed against the wall with his hands tied behind his back with his scarf. He's doing it for them as the dealer enters him roughly, drilling him into the dirty cement wall. Behind his eyelids, he sees Roger's smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when Mark brings home a particularly good stash.

He'd always told himself he'd never do this- that people that had sex for drugs were bad and deserved their consequences. He'd always believed that opinions were circumstantial and he's never felt anything like this before. The warm heat creeping through his veins and the grin on Roger's face when he comes home is worth a few uncomfortable minutes with a stranger in an alley.

He knows it's worth it when he thinks about how proud Roger's going to be. How it's going to remind Roger that he _is _cool and he _is_ worth his attention. He knows it's going to make Roger like him more when he comes home with an impressive supply. Enough to last them years if they wanted it to.

He'd always told himself that he'd never sell, but as he creeps up the steps of the loft with a duffel bag full of smack and a stack of bills to get him going, he's never felt more accomplished. He did it. He brought home the goods and as he enters the door, he's met with a hug and a kiss and a partially sincere apology whispered in his ear and it feels _good. _

It feels even better when Roger looks into the duffel bag and pulls out a Ziploc bag full of powder, looking up with wide green eyes.

"I'm selling." Mark states, feeling his chest tighten as Roger's face spreads into that familiar grin and he nearly drops the bag in his haste to pull Mark into his arms, lips locked together in a heated kiss which momentarily makes Mark forget why he even needed smack to begin with until Roger presses their foreheads together.

"I love you."

His hands tighten on the duffel bag as he whispers the words back desperately, pulling out his spoon and lighter with a grin.

Well, there's no going back now.

It becomes a thing. Toni and Davis- the boho boys, as they were so aptly nicknamed- you just knew not to fuck with them. It didn't matter if they were fucking each other blind and deaf, because they had what you needed. And if it's widely known that Toni is selling himself for their stash, you just didn't tell Davis because he was the key to your next hit.

Roger knew. Of course he knew. When Mark comes home smelling like sex with dried cum on his face and a bag full of smack, he just smiles and suggests they take a shower. He's not an idiot. He knows what Mark has to go through to get what they need. He's just glad it's not him.

Some days, he thinks about telling him. Telling him he doesn't have to go though the ridiculous routine and the lame excuses as to why he's home late, except Mark knows Roger is the jealous type and Roger knows, when faced with the decision between Mark and heroin, he'll take the drug.

It scares the shit out of him, but he can't afford to lose either of them, so he keeps his mouth shut.

It's getting cold again when Mark enters the loft after a visit from a particularly nasty client, a pocket full of powder in his pocket as a reward. He walks in to hear his mother's hysterical voice echoing off the walls of their loft.

"Mark, honey. I haven't heard from you in weeks! Oh baby, your father and I are so worried. Have you been kidnapped? I told you never to walk alone at night, especially during full moons! There are drug dealers everywhere in New York City and they're just looking for beautiful fresh meat like you-"

He unplugs the machine.

Fuck his mom. He's got a beautiful high and a sexy boyfriend and enough dope to make a junkie cry and so what if he pawned his camera for drugs? It's not like he was ever going to finish a god damned movie anyway and to be honest, he's not sure he even wants to anymore. Anything that could potentially take him away from this, he doesn't want to think about. And so what if the lines in his face aren't going away and he's had to start hitting his pelvic vein because he can't find anywhere else to hit anymore. His mom is wrong anyway, what bad could possibly come from his wonderful drug? So fuck her, and fuck Scarsdale. He's never going back, no matter how hard she cries.

Roger is sitting on the window bench hovered over his guitar when the machine cutting off signals him of Mark's presence.

"Hey baby, your mom called." He's trying to be funny and Mark laughs anyway although he's hardly amused. "Ooh, what'd you get?"

"Black." He waves the baggie of black tar heroin that he'd gotten in exchange for sex. "What are you doing?"

"Hm?" Roger looks up from the baggie, only mildly interested. "Oh yeah, I wrote something. Wanna hear it?"

Mark nods even though Roger plays like shit these days and Reed had left an ever so polite message officially kicking Roger out of the Well Hungarians after missing practice three weeks in a row to sell with Mark.

Roger begins playing a simple, melodic riff the wafts through the air softly, ending at a stoic, bittersweet note as he shrugs. "S'really all I have. I can concentrate better after we shoot." He moves his guitar from his lap, inviting Mark to straddle him, pulling their lips into a deep kiss and pointedly ignoring the fact that Mark smells purely of sweat and sex.

"What's it called?" He rasps out, looking into Roger's deep green eyes that make his heart stutter.

"Musetta's Waltz." Roger whispers, not noticing Mark's flinch as his hands move to cup his ass through his jeans. "You know why?" Mark shakes his head and he reminds Roger, just for a second, of how young he really is. To make himself feel better, he kisses him gently on the forehead.

"'Cause you're my muse."

Yeah, why would Mark ever want to leave this?

Just as soon as it starts getting really, really good- it gets really, really bad.

All of a sudden, they're hunched over the bed dry heaving because they haven't eaten enough in the past week to actually throw up. They're shaking and clinging to each other and they can't leave the loft. Angry clients are barging into the loft and Roger has to refrain from punching them in the face because Mark is _his _god damn it and nobody's going to take him away. Except Mark's on his knees in front of the toilet and Roger's stroking his hair back as some angry bastard slams the loft door.

And suddenly, one hit isn't enough. Soon enough, they're hitting more and more, clinging to each other as the high fights its way through their veins, sobbing once they finally feel the release.

Some part of Roger almost thinks that this is his fault, but there's a needle with his name on it that takes it away.

Now, we've already mentioned that Mark isn't a particularly smart guy at most crucial points in his life, but he definitely isn't an idiot. He knows the end of this story. He sees it etched in shades of black and white, crystal and powder.

He didn't come to New York to die at twenty two.

It's December 24, 1987. 04:00 EST.

That's when shit metaphorically hits the fucking fan.

"I want to get clean." Mark states in Roger's baffled face as he refuses a needle passed his way.

"Are you fucking insane?" Roger tilts his head, laughing because there's no way Mark's serious. "Come on Marky, don't say shit like that. S'not funny."

"I'm serious." Mark stands firm, fingers subconsciously twitching toward the needle wanting so desperately to feel that rush of intense euphoria. Heaven.

"We're dying, Rog." He kneels down beside his boyfriend, removing the needle from his hand and pressing his palm to his heart. "Don't you feel it? We'll die if we keep doing this. It's not _worth _it anymore."

Roger looks disinterested, hands crawling up Mark's torso. "Only the good die young, baby. Haven't you heard? We're too good to get clean. Plus, if we go we'll go together. Isn't that how it's supposed to be, you and me?"

Mark blinks in incredulity. _Is Roger actually trying to convince Mark to die with him?_

Unfortunately, the answer is yes.

"I don't want to die." Mark whispers, eyes wide and frightened. He hasn't had a hit in at least twenty four hours and it's catching up to him. His bones are creaky and aching and he feels like his head his going to collapse in on his body. When Roger's arms wrap around him, it's truly the only thing keeping him upright.

"We're not dying. This is living. Heaven, remember?" Mark scoffs. If this is Heaven, then Lucifer must be one lucky bastard.

"I'm giving it up Roger. It's not my thing." Roger rolls his eyes, trying to press closer to him, sex obviously on his mind. The hand on Roger's chest pushes him away slightly and his head snaps up. Mark's never said _no_ before.

"You're my thing." He whispers, eyes flickering between Roger's, feeling his heart pound in his throat and he can't believe he's actually doing this. He's actually, physically asking Roger to give up smack to be with him. "I love you, Roger. I love you more than any drug."

It takes Roger a few more and he still doesn't believe that Mark is serious. Mark isn't actually asking him to quit for him. His eyes flicker between Mark and the needle on the floor before he shrugs, pulling Mark into a kiss.

"I love you, too."

Okay, so maybe he was just saying whatever he thought would get him laid faster. Roger doesn't really think Mark's serious. He's just having a bad trip, Mark's not serious. He's not actually asking him to quit. They've already given up too much. There's no going back.

When their lips meet, it's a whole new kind of high.

Of course, Roger's already high but Mark doesn't care. He actually believes that they're going to make it. He's convinced himself that it's going to work. They're going to get clean and make movies and music and be together forever.

If only it was that easy.

It takes about three days for Roger to realize that Mark is serious.

They're curled up on the floor covered in sweat, vomit and something familiar that neither can name. Roger stopped shaking a long time ago. Mark almost wonders why, but there's a small trail of white powder on his upper lip that nulls his question. Instead, he just lets him hold him as another violent shudder tears through him and setting his nerves on fire in a way that's opposite to what he's yearning for.

This isn't him, he realizes somewhere in between the cold sweat and vomit. He should never have let it come this far. No matter how much he loves Roger, or whether he loves him at all. Respect from one man was never worth dying for. He's grown up knowing that his whole life. At home, at school, in temple it was drilled into his mind to the point where he had taken the knowledge for granted. It seemed obvious now, in the beginning steps of his withdrawal.

He may love Roger with every fibre of his being, but no living man can be god. Not even rockstars with bright blonde hair and blazing green eyes and the refusal to leave well enough alone.

Roger was his god though. Ever since he set foot in the god damned city he'd always taken Roger's word as law, following him, letting Roger spiral him into his world of sex, drugs and rock and roll. He'd let Roger drag him down with him over and over until they'd hit rock bottom.

And here he was. If crying in your boyfriend's arms while the drug was furiously fighting its way out of your body while the man holding you was riding the very high that you longed so desperately for wasn't rock bottom, Mark didn't know what it was.

Roger. Everything he'd done was for Roger. It was for them, and their life. Their drugs came before anything Mark was ever taught. Morality wasn't an issue anymore and while desperately trying to hold back stomach acid, he realizes that it isn't Roger's issue either.

It's his problem.

It was always his decision and the decisions he made can't be blamed on Roger, no matter how much the musician influenced them. Mark always had the opportunity to say no. Instead, he let a hero worship turn him into the very thing his mother had always warned him about. He was a drug dealer. He was a prostitute.

He was a junkie.

Turning around in Roger's arms, he looks up timidly to see him and he knows it won't work. This may not be him, but it's Roger. Even though the look on his face says that he loves Mark, the powder on his lip says that the drug will always come before him, and he'd put Roger before anything else in his entire life.

Wiping the powder off with a shaky thumb, he keeps their eyes locked together, each waiting for the other to say what they both know. He wants to. He wants to be the strong one and say what needs to be said. But he doesn't trust his voice and there's a million different reasons as to why he should keep it closed because Mark doesn't do so well with words, or confrontation of any sort. Once he manages to find his voice, wanting so badly to vocalize at least one of the annoying thoughts racing through his mind, the question he asks is one he already knows the answer to.

"Do you love me?"

It's funny- well, it's funny in a cynical, ironic way how Roger's mouth twists up in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He scratches his nose with the hand that's not under Mark's shaking torso. Mark doesn't even know why he asked the question. Maybe he really is a masochist.

"Of course I do."

Still, Mark is shocked that he can lie to him with such ease. Maybe he really isn't as important to him as he thought he was. At this rate, he knows he'll never be.

The first time they have sex sober, they know it's over.

Mark's been withdrawing for at least a week now, and the last of their stash is done. Roger knows what's coming, and he knows that he has a decision to make. It's now that he has to make the decision he never wanted to make in the first place.

His movements are too rough, and Mark doesn't understand why they bothered doing this at all. They don't fit together anymore, and Mark's desperately holding on to the idea that Roger could still love him. If he shows him that they could still have everything they had without the drug that maybe Roger will quit and they can move on.

It's not like Roger's not trying either. He's trying to prove to Mark- prove to himself that he's not like every other junkie on earth. He has to prove that he can put Mark before smack for his own sake. It was never supposed to come to this.

But as they're moving together, each man trying to achieve their own high, that's all it is. A desperate race to the top that neither want to lose, each trying to prove to the other something that's been lost before it even started. Whatever is was that made them hold on to each other like they were the last men standing is gone, replaced by something uncomfortable and nearly frightening that almost makes them want to give up.

It's awkward when it's over because neither of them knows what to say. Roger's the first one to move, collecting his clothing from the floor and looking back at the bed where Mark has his eyes closed and his head hung in resignation.

All Roger wants to do is escape this unfamiliar discomfort and rely on his constant. Something he had before Mark even came. When Mark's eyelids flutter open to see Roger still standing there, he almost lets himself dare hope that Roger will come back.

Instead, Roger shakes his head sadly and they both know what it means.

"I'm sorry." He sighs, giving Mark a final sad look before twisting the door knob and exiting the room.

Once he hears the loft door slide shut, Mark lets himself succumb to the sobs that he's been holding in for a year now. Tears he'd been holding back ever since that first night at the club. He's scared, he's always been scared but now everything's come full circle and all he can think of is how much he really needs his mom right now.

Rushing out of the loft in his haste to get his hands on something, anything that will make him feel as high as he did six months ago when he and Mark were at their peak, he runs straight into a girl with blazing red hair and green eyes so much like his own.

"You better watch out, Davis."

At first, he's not surprised that she knows his name because everyone in this part of town does, or so it seems. It's not until she smiles and brushes her hair out of her face that he realizes he knows her. It's the same girl that Roger had dragged Mark away from on the very first night they'd met. She's beautiful, but it's not her face or her body he's attracted to.

It's the glaze over her eyes.

"It's Roger." He supplies, watching her with a smile that says he's doing something he's going to regret.

"April." She offers offhandedly, hand coming up to tug at the collar of his leather jacket and he curses realizing her thumb is two inches from a purple mark on his neck and he'd forgotten his favourite blue and white striped scarf upstairs, but there's no way in hell he's going back up there now. She doesn't notice though, and if she does notice, she doesn't say anything.

"Want to get out of here?"

Roger can't really say no because he'd be lying if he said he wanted to stay here. So he nods.

"What did you have in mind?" With an evil grin and a tug on his sleeve, she whirls around.

"Oh, I think we can figure something out."

It takes him a fortnight to even show his face in the loft again, and Mark's sitting in his seat at the window, looking at him with tired eyes.

"Pretty girl." He comments, gesturing to April whose three stories below them, waving up at the window. "Who is she?"

Roger cringes, realizing that Mark had seen him shoving his tongue down her throat before he came up here.

"April. Her name's April."

Mark nods stoically, standing and preparing himself for the inevitable, taking a deep sigh before looking up at Roger.

"Why are you here, Roger?" It's not what he means to say, and judging by the look on Roger's face, he knows that all too well. "What are we doing?"

"I live here, and we're taking in _our _living room." He stresses the _our_, almost as if he really means it. Except Mark's had just about enough of Roger's excuses and he has a packed bag in their bedroom and he doesn't think anything Roger will say can change his mind.

"You know that's not what I mean." He crosses his arms across his chest protectively, almost as if he's holding himself together. "You can't do this anymore. You have to choose."

He doesn't know what he's doing, or why he's doing it. He holds up a package of white powder that he's been staring at ever since he realized that Roger wasn't coming home to work things out. It was temptation, and Mark overcame it. It's the only thing he's proud of doing since he's been here.

Roger stares at him incredulously because he's _not ready_ to make this decision yet. He wants them both. He doesn't want to lose Mark, and he wants to keep the drug. And then there's April who had blasted her way into his life with her smile and her needle and his mind really can't make sense of all of it.

He advances on him unsurely, glancing from his clear, blue eyes to the baggie of powder in his right hand, staring him dead in the face. Mark's breath hitches and his heart leaps into his throat as Roger's arms wrap around him, cheek pressing against his ear.

For a moment, it almost looks like Roger is going to choose his filmmaker. He holds him tight, lips pressing against his neck softly as his hand strokes up his chest. There's no way Mark saw this coming. He's actually going to pick him and get clean. Roger is going to choose him over drugs and give them a chance- something he never thought he had if he ever forced Roger to make this decision. Yet here they are, and his heart is still racing as Roger opens his mouth to speak.

"You know I love you, Marky."

Then his hand is being clasped by rough, calloused fingers and the powder is being torn from his grasp. The last thing Mark remembers about Roger Davis is the way he looks over his shoulder, almost resentfully as he slams the loft door shut.

If he ever came back, Mark didn't stick around long enough to find out.

Roger had finally found his One Great Love. April was everything he'd ever wanted, every touch washing the memory of his inspiring filmmaker out of his head, every kiss reminding him why he made the decision he made.

Mark was just a memory, albeit a very vague one. He had come home to the loft giggling with April on his arm nearly a week later to find their room nearly empty and a piece of scrap paper taped to the refrigerator. A note, he realizes belatedly.

_ROGER,_

_I'm going home. New York was never where I belonged, I realize that now. It's funny, there are so many things I've always wanted to say to you and right now I can't think of a single one that matters anymore. I don't even know why I'm bothering with this. I guess I just thought you deserved some kind of goodbye. So, goodbye and I'll miss you- but this is what's best for both of us._

_Thanks for the ride._

_Love,  
>Mark.<em>

At the time, Roger didn't think much of the note. He felt a pang of regret as the realization set in, but April and her needle was enough to shove any feeling but desire to the back of his mind. Baggage he'll deal with later, because with April it was all about now and here. He didn't have to think, that was something he could deal with when he came to it.

As it turns out, later ended up being a year later when he walked into the bathroom to find April lying in a pool of her own blood and a note taped to the mirror. It was then that Roger realized he really hated notes.

_We've got AIDS._

_We've got AIDS._

_DSIA tog ev'eW._

No matter how many times he stared at the note he couldn't make the words change into something more tangible. It takes Collins half an hour to wrestle him away from the girl's body, screaming in a fit of rage because how dare she leave him, after Mark left him and now everything was shit and it was obviously her fault.

The thing about Roger was that he could never take the blame for anything, even if he was responsible. It was easier to blame April. Even in the sterile off white facility where he endured the worst of his withdrawal, he blamed her. He blamed Mark. He blamed Collins, even though he'd only known the man for hardly six months, he had to blame anyone who wasn't himself, because Roger couldn't do anything wrong.

It was too much, too soon and everything in the world had come to a thudding halt.

It was time he figured out who he was because in the little amount of time afforded to him, he couldn't lie to himself any longer.

Oddly enough, goodbyes never seem to be final. Sometimes they should stay that way, but more often than not, fate decides to break down your door; have someone shake up your life one last time, just so they can have the last laugh.

Honestly, Roger never expected to see the passionate, quirky blonde man again. Life is a game of chance however, and the world is really too small to make firm assumptions like that.

It's December of 1989 now. A year and a half since April's death and his diagnosis had sent Roger's entire world spinning. It's almost Christmas, but Roger doesn't really feel the need to celebrate that particular holiday these days. It's by a complete accident that he ends up face to face with Mark in front of a Starbucks in the Village, both reaching for the handle at the same time.

Mark doesn't recognize him at first and Roger doesn't blame him either. His hair is grown out now, faded a dirty blonde. He ditched the plaid pants for jeans without holes in them. The old, worn leather jacket is the tip off. Roger recognizes him instantly and freezes when their hands brush.

Especially at the feeling of a cool, metal ring on Mark's left hand.

"Oh. Sorry."

It warms Roger's heart to see that the other man is just as awkward as ever, squinting and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Roger Davis?" He asks in incredulity, and Roger briefly wonders if Mark is surprised that he's still even alive.

"Yeah. Hey." He says, feeling just as awkward as the blonde, shoving his hands in his coat pockets as they step away from the door.

"Gosh. It's really been awhile." Mark observes, scanning the other man before nodding his approval. "You look good."

It's almost clichéd small talk because they both know what they're dancing around, so Roger breaks first.

"I got clean. A year last month." He states, vaguely proud of himself.

"Good for you. I'm happy for you." Mark looks slightly surprised, a small smile on his face. "How's April?

"Dead." He answers dryly, not beating around the bush with him because _Mark _left _him_. He sees the way he winces however, and a pang of guilt stabs him in the gut.

"You went back to Scarsdale." He assumes, giving him a once over, unable to help the longing glance he gives him and if Mark notices, he doesn't say anything. He just nods.

"You got married?" Roger gestures to the ring on his finger, only looking slightly jealous. Seeing Mark again made him realize everything he'd given up on all those years ago and it _hurt, _because he'd never been able to let it hurt him before. "What's her name?"

After giving an exasperated sigh, he smiles slightly, giving Roger a look he remembers all too well. "You don't care what her name is, Roger."

This is the Mark that Roger remembers. The boy he fell in love with because even between the drugs and the sex, to say he didn't love him would be wildly incorrect. In fact looking back on it, Roger isn't sure he's ever loved anyone more.

Mark sees it too. He remembers how it felt to be with Roger. How it was when it was just them, on top of the fucking world. Their glory days are ones he's finally becoming able to look back at fondly, because even though deep down he still resents him, he's actually really happy to see Roger again.

He'd gone home just like he said he would. He stayed with his sister and her fiancé while he got clean and let his mom sob all over him, saying how she should have done a better job. After celebrating a year off drugs, he met Angela.

They complimented each other perfectly; she was creative and inspiring just like the woman of his dreams and had finally convinced him to start filming again. She was someone who knew how to be his best friend and his wife.

She never asked about the marks on his arms, and he never told her. It was a part of his past that he'd buried a long time ago.

He always told everyone how she was his better half- his soul mate. Except thinking about it now, with the guitarist right in front of him, smiling at him reflectively, he doubts that she'll ever compare to him.

"I'm sorry." Roger says eventually, and he's not even sure if Mark's listening, but he looks up regretfully anyway. "For everything."

Mark smiles at him, placing a hand on his arm and it's then that he's pretty sure he'll always love the other man to some degree anyway. "Let's not talk about that." It's another way to avoid the issue, but it's not one he thinks will ever come up between him and Roger again.

Roger nods, touching the hand on his arm tentatively and biting his lip. He almost wants to tell Mark about his diagnosis, and he almost does, but there's a hopeful look in his eyes that he can't bear to crush. He can't drop this on him when he's relatively sure he'll never see him again, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"It's really good to see you." He offers instead, taking a hesitant step back, letting Mark's hand drop to his side, swinging uselessly like a metronome.

"I loved you, you know." Mark isn't sure why he says it, but he's never really had full control of his brain to mouth filter. It's what got him into all that trouble in the first place. He laughs anyway, smiling at his old lover. "And I still think you have pretty eyes."

This makes Roger laugh, a sound that he hasn't heard escape his lips in a long time and he almost puts a hand over his mouth in awe. He smiles fondly and he knows it's almost over and he doesn't want to let go of the last chance he'll ever have to tell him anything he can think of that might be relevant. "I did too."

They're quiet for a moment, each treasuring the moment before Mark pulls out a business card and presses it into Roger's palm, much like he had done to that drug dealer so many years ago.

Roger glanced down at it, blinking as the words came into focus.

_Mark Cohen, Director: (480)555-2385_

"Congratulations." Roger says, smiling genuinely. It's almost reassuring that Mark was able to make something of himself, despite everything. It almost gives Roger hope that maybe he can actually find his song. "Did you ever finish your movie?"

Mark's cheeks tinge slightly, and if Roger didn't know him so well, he'd hardly be able to tell he was blushing. He has to remind himself that he doesn't know Mark anymore, because the man in front of him is a completely different person than he knew. Mark could probably say the same for him.

"It's almost done. I think I have an idea of how it ends now." He nods, gesturing to the card. "You know, just in case you want to get together sometime. I come into the city a lot to film. We could get coffee or lunch or-"

"Yeah, sure." Roger saves him, tucking the card into his pocket. "I'll call you, sometime. We can catch up. But I really should…" He gestures toward the street. "You know."

"Yeah." Mark nods, giving him a small wave. "So I'll talk to you soon, then?"

Roger nods and they part ways for the last time, hardly glancing back.

Roger never calls him, but Mark never really expected him to.

It's only two years later when Roger's story is dragging to a close.

Fade in on a stark white hospital room. Roger is barely conscious, hooked up to as many machines as they can fit around him, the steady beat of the heart monitor a constant reminder that he's not dead yet.

Collins is sitting in the corner, nursing a bottle of water. He hates being there. Hospitals remind him too much of Angel, and he doesn't want to watch Roger die, knowing that he's next. But Collins is a good guy, and Roger is his best friend, so he stays.

Roger finally comes to around six o'clock. Collins grins at him, but Roger doesn't even bother trying to smile back.

"How are you feeling?"

It's an innocent enough question, but Roger just lays his head back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. There are so many things running through his mind that it's hard to keep them all straight. He wishes he had a timer, just so that he knows how many silent moments like this he can afford before it's over.

He almost wishes Collins wasn't there. He knows it's hard for him, but he doesn't ask him to leave. He's too caught up in his past, trying to remember everything that got him here. Every slip of that needle brought him closer to death, and he didn't care then. But now he's facing death in the face and all he wants is a do over.

Except no matter how many times he begs and pleads to God to let him take it back, he's still here in the same hospital room, and he's still dying. Even though Collins and the doctors won't admit it, he's not an idiot. He knows now what Mark meant when he asked if he could feel it.

_Mark._

He can't escape him. Memories of his simple, blonde camera man flash behind his eyes and he can't help but succumb to them with a sigh. He doesn't regret a moment of it, even though it brought him here. There's a lot he wishes he could remember, small details like the sound of his voice, and the way his lips felt.

Those were the happiest moments of Roger's short life.

He never wanted it to end like this. Even though Collins is here, he feels more alone than he ever has. He'd always thought he'd go out with a bang, not simply waste away, succumbing to a disease he could have prevented.

There's a lot he wishes he could change. It seems like forever ago when he was at the highest point of his life. Being with Mark had been a rush, and he can hardly believe it was only a year because he feels like he's known him forever. He thinks of April too sometimes, but he realized a long time ago that he didn't love her the way she had always thought he did.

Sometimes he thinks about the petite Spanish girl he'd met shortly after seeing Mark for the last time, barging into his loft with her candle and her fancy prayer. He wonders what would have happened if he had taken her up on her offer. At this point, he realizes it doesn't matter because either way, he'd still end up here.

Collins stands slowly, wiping his hands on his pants and walking toward Roger's bedside, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Roger swallows, real tears welling up in his eyes as be rapidly blinks at the larger man, gripping his arm with everything he has. When he speaks, even his own voice sounds foreign to him.

"Mark." He whispers, shaking slightly and trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall at any moment. "I want Mark."

Of course Collins has no idea who Mark is, or whether he's a real person or not, is but he nods anyway, smiling slightly.

"Sure, Rog. I'm just going downstairs for a sec. Want me to sneak you anything?"

Roger just shakes his head because there's no way in hell he can stomach anything anymore and even he can hear his heart beat softening.

He knows it's almost over. There's no more time for him to dwell over things he can't change.

There's nobody in the room when Roger flatlines.

Collins is downstairs in the cafeteria holding his head in his hands and praying to God that this isn't happening.

Mark is in Florida with his wife and his two year old son, spending the holidays at Disney, blissfully unaware.

At this point, Roger's forgiven himself. He knows it's his own fault that he's dying alone, without anyone there to hold his hand as he takes his last shaky breath. He's done blaming everyone else for his mistakes.

It's Collins who tells Mark after finding his business card in Roger's pocket and putting two and two together. He feels like the smaller man should know, because he was obviously important enough for Roger to mention in his final minutes.

He feels like he knows the filmmaker from somewhere. Perhaps in another life, if you believe in things like that, which Collins does.

Still every year there's a flower on Roger's grave. A single rose. It's theatrical, just like Roger would have liked it.

Mark never tells his family who the blonde haired man in his movie is. His wife is smart enough to figure it out, but she'll never say anything. It's Mark's tribute to that time in his life. To Roger, letting him know that he doesn't regret it either.

He remembers Roger's metaphor, how they were living in heaven. Sometimes late at night, he asks Roger what it's like. He's almost relieved when he doesn't answer.

If that's as close to heaven as Mark will get, he'll take it.

He knows he wouldn't trade it for the world.

_In the darkest nights,_

_If my memory serves me right,_

_I'll never turn back time;_

_Forgetting you, but not the time._


End file.
